


A Crow, a Storm

by Flowers From Yavanna (TheFullmetalSociopath)



Category: Merlin (TV), TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur may be emotionally constipated but in THIS fic Merlin is worse, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Elves, Friendship, Gen, Magic Revealed, Merlin is Erestor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Secret Identity, Spies & Secret Agents, Spymaster!Merlin, Takes place early third age, but we're going with slightly edited LotR world building so it's not as overtly magic-y, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFullmetalSociopath/pseuds/Flowers%20From%20Yavanna
Summary: The thing about legends is that they're fickle, prone to half-truths and embellishments. They go from truth, to fact, to rumor, to story, then back again and around a few more times and viola! A legend is born. Much like the legend of King Arthur, which not a few have tried to parse through. Some even got fairly close to the facts of the matter, but none could ever grasp the truth, not when scarcely a word of it has ever been whispered. The minstrels and kings of the many courts of Albion didn't have a clue, surely. The knights and castle staff may have had a better idea. But even Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon himself, couldn't be said to know the true legend of King Arthur and the sorcerer, Merlin.Why? Because there had never been a Merlin at all. It was simply Erestor, the Spymaster of Imladris, and a mission to protect and guide the prince of Camelot. Friendship was never meant to be involved in a job like this, but every job goes wrong somehow.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. A Mother's Greeting

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This idea blindsided me a bit, and I found I just couldn't bear to leave it be. For those of you following Can't You Hear the Thunder? don't worry, that story's still my priority!  
> I hope you'll enjoy this fic, because I'm having a ball with this concept and its an absolute blast writing it. And as always, please comment, I would love to hear any comments or questions about the story or my writing style!
> 
> This story is inspired in part by small elements of several other stories, including Twin Tales: Taking Root by the wonderful Linorien, Marred but Remade by SpaceWall, and Under Strange Stars by Idrils_Scribe. I highly recommend these stories, they are quite the read!
> 
> Tentative schedule is for Tuesdays, but since this isn't my focus right now that is subject to change.

You see, the funny little thing about legends is they tend to assert themselves as a wicked sort of fact over the ages. Truth turns to fact, fact into rumor, rumor into story, and so a legend is born. If it survives long enough, is diluted enough, perhaps it can be proud enough to call itself a myth. In the curious case of the ever famous Legend of King Arthur, this is true on many counts. Don’t get me wrong, there is always a grain of truth to things, buried underneath all the gossip and the misspoken words, warped like a bad game of telephone. Some even get fairly close to the original version of events. Now, it is true that some succeed in unearthing what is nearly the original _story_ of events, but none would be able to even scratch the surface of the truth.

For you see, it is quite difficult to find a story of the truth when not a word of it has ever been whispered.

❮❋❯

Imladris was, as always, a paradise. In the age of peace blooming from the sorrow that arose from the War of the Last Alliance, tensions grew, souring the soil by imperceptible measures. Even if the race of Men were still unaware of their ascendency, the Elves felt their waning in Middle-Earth all too strongly, even if it was only the beginning. And they also knew, through countless failures and lessons, that the war against Sauron was not over. Not yet. Not while the Ring still remained whole.

Which brought Erestor to his present situation. In the process of making sure the new Lord of Imladris could perform all his duties correctly (he needn’t have worried, Elrond was incredibly competent), and could conduct everything smoothly in the absence of Gil-Galad (this was more of a problem, as Erestor had needed to help with much of the repairs and governance while Elrond, who had been closer to Gil-Galad, mourned), Erestor had wound up the advisor of yet another Noldorin ruler. And Elrond, ever pragmatic, was not ignorant of all Erestor’s years of service as the chief Spymaster in Gil-Galad’s court.

Erestor sat down across from Elrond at a modest table, on one of the many balconies in Imladris.

“You sent for me?” He asked.

Elrond looked up from his book, snapping it shut as he focused on Erestor. His hair was braided simply, most of it left unbound as was customary in times of peace, with none of the fastenings of a king. It was strange to behold, after a time of war, upon the head of the last living elf with a claim to the position of High King of the Noldor.

“Yes,” Elrond began. “I have heard tell of unrest in the east, many warring Mannish kingdoms.”

“And?” Erestor prompted. The nice thing about the absence of a king was being able to drop certain formalities. Not that Erestor generally followed them, but the sentiment was the same.

“And I have also heard tell of a prophecy of Men.” Elrond stood, his dark blue robes rustling. “Walk with me.”

Erestor stood, walking in step with Elrond through the pathways and gardens of Imladris.

“As you know, some of our previous spy network still remained in the kingdoms to the Far East,” Elrond said.

Erestor nodded. “But you also know that we received almost no word from them since the most of them were ordered to travel back for the war?”

“Yes,” Elrond admitted. “That is what this is about, really. Our first correspondence from them since the war has been received. You were not notified,” Elrond cut Erestor off, seeing him ready to protest that as the Spymaster he should have gotten the correspondence first, and why hadn’t he heard of this? “Because the messenger came directly to me, only today.” He withdrew a scroll from a pocket and handed it to Erestor. “This is the intelligence they saw fit to send us, from all they had gathered.”

Erestor took a moment to read from the scroll.

“A purge on all magics and magical creatures?” Erestor asked indignantly. “What kind of madness is this? So this is why we received no word, not even in wartime…”

“Yes,” Elrond nodded gravely. “But that is not all. There is more information there which you can examine later, and I am sure you will soon be receiving many letters after this one, but there was also a message which prompted our spies to risk themselves in investigating, from what the messenger told me. An opportunity.”

“I’m listening.” Erestor’s curiosity was peaked.

“There are rumor of a prophecy, in which a young prince of Camelot, one of the more prominent kingdoms, will unite the many different states under one banner. The prophecy we received goes into no cryptic details, but there is tell of a… helper, to the prince, in this endeavor. A guardian.” Elrond stopped, turning to face Erestor. They had walked unconsciously near the library, where Erestor was most comfortable. Or, knowing Elrond, maybe not so unknowingly.

“So you wish to send someone to, what? Help the kingdom unite?” Erestor of course knew that their spies had been sent to ensure that those men of the far kingdoms did not fall prey to the Enemy, and become yet another nation of thralls turned against the Free Peoples of Arda, but although they had seen no evidence of the influence of either Dark Lord, the strife among Men there was an unsolvable issue. Not even a few choice assassinations had fixed the problem. “That is madness,” he snorted. “The Men of the Eastern shores fight each other like starved wargs. They would never unite as one nation.”

“But they could,” Elrond countered. “And if they did, they could turn the tide against Sauron, when the final reckoning comes.”

Flower petals blew from a nearby fruit tree, white like snow. The sweetness of spring pervaded the air, but Erestor never had been able to get the taste of blood and ash off of his tongue.

“They could,” Erestor admitted, with more finality than he felt. “What is to be done, then?” Plans of regicide and infiltration flitted through his mind, who would be best suited to nation toppling and the pulling of strings. Perhaps his lieutenant and a few experienced assassins could get the job done…

“I would like to send someone to watch over this new prince in secrecy, to guide him and mold him into someone who would fight alongside the Elves when the time comes, a nation of Man who would treat us as they do their fellows, not as angels or monsters.”

Erestor had not been thinking anything of the sort. It must have shown on his face, because Elrond’s eyes skated across his face, younger than Erestor but somehow still with knowledge as vast as the stars they reflected, and he sighed.

“I know you have seen it too, Erestor. You are much more cynical than I, and it serves you well in your work. Men, those who once fought alongside us, even those of my brother’s kindred, they grow in fear and ignorance. Even now they speak of Galadriel as a dangerous enchantress. I do not condone too much maneuvering in the affairs of the Dúnedain, but for a kingdom in the warring states of the Far East probably needs all the help it can get.” Elrond pushed open the door to the Library, motioning for Erestor to follow.

“Who do you plan to send?” Erestor asked. “I know a few who may be good for the job.”

Elrond looked back at him, a mysterious smile gracing his lips. “As do I.”

Erestor waited a moment for Elrond to tell him who he had in mind. “Well?” He prompted.

Elrond held his silence. There was a gleam in his eye that was suspiciously similar to the one he had worn when he first arrived at Gil-Galad’s court with his brother. A gleam that had caused many, many gold coins’ worth of damage.

“Oh, oh no,” He warned. “No. Don’t you even dare.”

“You’re my most trusted advisor, Erestor,” Elrond placated. “And the most talented spy here.”

“I’m not going to _babysit_ -”

“You love children.”

“From a certain distance and _elven_. And this won’t be a literal child it’ll be a chore.”

“Nonsense, and you’ve always said you wanted to explore the Eastern shore.”

“Not with a Mannish princeling in tow!”

Elrond was the elf to be feared at Imladris. Sure, Glorfindel was a legendary warrior, and they had a great many talented sages, but Elrond had somehow managed to be both wise and ruthless, all the while smiling kindly and making the poor sap at the other end of his gaze feel guilty somehow.

Erestor was leaving for the kingdom of Camelot in three days time.

❮❋❯

Erestor had seen many a village like this one.

The streets were nothing but dirt, trodden to mud by hoof and heel. Small houses lined the road, a small cluster of buildings, farms and stables that attempted to pass itself off as an individual town. People worked in the fields, in the house, every hand put to work with nothing to spare. Those same people turned to watch as Erestor rode down the street, taking him in with wary eyes.

This was the first sign of civilization, more permanent than the odd stamped-out campfire, that Erestor had come across for days. Which meant that he had finally crossed from the wilds of the Mid-East and the warring clans of Easterlings and Variags and into the land of the Far East. Though entering warring kingdoms was little better than warring clans, at least they were less inclined to shoot strangers on sight. There had been more close calls than Erestor would like to admit. He could only hope that this was truly the village he had set out for. If it were not, he had several more days of travel ahead of him.

A woman in a threadbare brown dress, with hair the same color held back by a grey cloth, emerged from one of the nearest houses and walked towards Erestor. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, revealing gentle crow’s feet that gave her a motherly quality. She looked about average for a peasant woman, except for the braided cord she pulled up from underneath her collar upon catching sight of Erestor. On the cord, made of simple twine, was a ring. It most closely resembled a signet ring, depicting a crow mid-flight, clutching a lily in its beak. However, the ring depicted no noble house, and certain not one among Men.

 _“The crow follows?”_ He said in Quenya, dismounting.

 _“So the swallow may fly,”_ the woman completed the phrase, smiling. “Welcome, my friend.” She hugged him, switching to Westron. He did his best not to tense up. “They sent me word that you would be traveling here.” She took him by the arm and led him into the house she had come from, motioning to one of the village boys to take the horse. “How was the road?”

“Road?” Erestor snorted. “If there were a road to this place, I would have arrived a month sooner.” She simply shook her head, smiling good-naturedly. “The journey went well enough,” he conceded. “No orc ambushes or near-death experiences.”

“Please, sit.” She motioned at a set of rickety wooden chairs set with a small table. “I’m sure you’re hungry from the road. And!” She cut him off even with her back turned. “Don’t try to tell me you still have waybread. I do not care, and you are having a hot meal.”

Erestor raised an eyebrow. “So what warning did you have of my arrival?” He wondered if she even knew who was sent, as both their disguised prevented any identification. The magic of a glamour was potent, but their quality and scope was completely dependent on the skill of the master. The elves under Erestor’s “house” always channeled their glamours through a more permanent conduit than the body, such as the identifying rings they all carried with them. That being said, the effectiveness meant that it was terribly difficult to recast the glamour, so spies did not get in the habit of dropping them once in the presence of their fellows. And it was sloppy, besides. So it was that Erestor had been in many an awkward situation such as this before, where he could be speaking to a close friend or a total stranger and would be none the wiser.

The woman set down a steaming bowl in front of him, sitting down across from him with one of her own.

“Nothing but the assignment,” she answered, shrugging a bit. “I am to be your contact, both to connect you to the royal household and to deliver correspondence from Imladris.”

“Ah, so what is your name, if we are to be working together for so long a time?” Erestor kept the amusement out of his voice. He played this game on every new assignment, and it never got old. If it was one of his closer colleagues or apprentices, they could talk themselves into labyrinths before actually spitting out their real names, even if by that point they almost certainly knew the identity of the other.

“Húnith,” she answered simply.

“Ah, but what of your other name?” He said.

“If it is a surname you seek, I have none.” She leaned forward, a glint in her eye. “And what of your name?”

“I am called Merlin,” he replied.

“No surname?” She inquired innocently.

“None, for I am a peasant as well.”

“No father to name?” She asked.

“Is there?” He returned.

This introduction, the game, was a sort of dance. To the inexperienced eye it was only senseless banter, but to the House of the Crow it was a briefing. Like all things, totally dependent on the skill and wit of the participants, the coded instructions could continue for hours or minutes. It was the most frequent way they were able to test their skills in subterfuge amongst their fellows, with no threat of death or failure above their heads. What Erestor gathered from the ensuing conversation was this:

He was to pose as the son of Húnith, traveling to the city to become the apprentice of the Court Physician, Gaius, who was a close friend of Húnith’s. And to answer his worries about being ratted out by the village folk, he needn’t worry— Húnith was the sole reason they survived some winters, and she was beloved enough that they would spin any lie and carry out any deception in her name. He couldn’t help but feel that in the course of her care for them she had gained some motherly habits of her own, as Húnith paused mid-briefing to refill his bowl.

Other than that, there was not much to tell. Maneuver himself to a position of influence or counsel, guide the prince to unite the warring states under one banner, and ensure that they stand against the Enemy when the time comes. And stop the whole Purge business, as well. That would be nice.

“I must say,” Húnith regarded him carefully. “For the master of Imladris to send one here alone with so little guidance either speaks of skill on your part or incompetency on his.”

Erestor hummed. “Yes, that would seem to be the case.” The conversation was drawing to a close, it would seem, after only fifteen minutes or so. And at the end came the informal practice that had somehow become the formal greeting, of stating the true name of each. Established agent first, then newcomer.

“If it is so, then perhaps you could speak your name, and so show me which is true?” Húnith asked.

“Truth is nothing,” Erestor countered. “Tell me yours, and you might find mine.”

“I am Belwen,” she finally conceded.

“Glídan’s apprentice?” Glídan was a good friend of Erestor’s, who had spoken many times of her kind-hearted student.

“The same,” Belwen said. “And you?”

“I am Erestor,” he watched Belwen closely for signs of a reaction— nothing more than a slight widening of the eyes, a startled exhalation. Good, but not quiet good enough. Then her eyes seemed to shutter for a moment, and Erestor could only imagine what was going through her mind. Perhaps it was the disguise? It would be a rubbish disguise if he stood out at all, betrayed his real nature in any way, so he was flattered. Tall, gangly, pale and slightly “goofy-looking” as Glorfindel had so eloquently put it when Erestor had left, no one could ever link Merlin to the elf underneath. Even with ages of practice and experience, plans still went wrong, but Erestor was confident this one would be a success.

“I see… my Lord,” a faint blush of embarrassment reddened her cheeks.

“I am no Lord, my friend. Actually, as of now I’m your son.” He winked at her, and she looked at him in surprise.

“So,” he settled back into the conversation. He expected this part to take a bit longer. “Why did you name me Merlin, dear mother?”

Belwen smiled slightly and visibly relaxed. “All planning and details, I see. Your reputation precedes you… dear son of mine.”

And so began the infiltration of Camelot by Erestor, Head of the House of the Crow, Spymaster of Imladris, and Merlin of Ealdor.

❮❋❯

The road to Camelot had been long, and it had provided Erestor ample time to perfect and slip into his new role of Merlin the peasant boy. A little cocky, as all young men were, and a bit of a wise-ass, but nice nonetheless. People trusted a kind person, if honesty and sincerity went along with it, and Erestor— No, Merlin— could easily check off two of the three. People also tended to let slip many secrets around ears they doubted to be capable of understanding them, so Merlin would come off as a bit cotton-headed, just obtuse and goofy enough to escape someone’s notice. No, an idiot like that couldn’t possibly stab me in the back with a stiletto dagger half the width of my pinkie! No, what sort of idiot could possibly know the proper dosage of hemlock to kill a king without being detected! And he was young, so there was the maneuverability to “mature” and grow to a respectable position over the years, to lose the fool’s guise.

So as he entered the gates of Camelot, Merlin was grinning ear to oversized ear at the wonderful sight of a bustling city and a splendorous castle, seeing the magnificence of the city for the first time.


	2. Fateful Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin arrives in Camelot and witnesses an execution. Unfortunately for Camelot, this doesn't deter him much. 
> 
> Follows the events of The Dragon's Call, but consistent with the butterfly effect things start to go just a bit differently, and though Camelot doesn't know it yet, it will never be the same.

The skies above Camelot were clear and bright, beautifully blue and full of life. The sun shone down, dappling the streets with its gentle warmth. But as Merlin traveled further and further up the sloped streets to the citadel, the hustle and bustle of the busy marketplace and lower town faded away. That was normal, usually. The complete silence it left in its wake was not. He might have sighed, but really it just was not a complete day without some sort of strange occurrence.

So it was that when Merlin arrived in the castle courtyard and was greeted with, of all things, a chopping block and execution for use of magic in full swing, well, he was hardly surprised. The easygoing smile faded off his face as he joined the grim crowd and a man in filthy, tattered clothing was led to the raised platform.

A voice from above drew his attention to a balcony.

“Let this serve as a lesson to all,” the king held his head high, perhaps attempting to nudge some clouds into submission with his angular nose. “This man is adjudged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic.” Oh wonderful! Welcomed with the awful genocidal tendencies the Far East’s warring states had managed to evolve over the past few decades.

The king still stared resolutely above the crowd. It must have been difficult to crane his neck at such an angle with such a hideous chunk of metal on his head. What a poor excuse for a crown that was.

“And pursuant to the laws of Camelot,” the king continued.

The man was made to kneel by two executioners, masked and clothed in black.

“I, Uther Pendragon, have decreed that such practices are banned.” Uther raked a hawkish glare over the crowd.

The chopping block may have been wood-colored, once. It now was dyed with so much blood, old and new, wicked and innocent, soaked into the grains and fibers of the wood that it was not so much a light brown as a sickening red-black.

“On penalty of death.”

One executioner grabbed the man by his neck, pushing his head down to the groove in the wood. The other stood to the side, axe in hand.

“I pride myself as a fair and just king, but for the crime of sorcery there is but one sentence I can pass.” Uther nodded to the executioners, raising his arm.

Merlin prayed the axe was sharp.

The executioner raised his blade, the image of death and condemnation. A moment passed.

Uther’s arm dropped.

The axe fell.

No matter where the execution took place, be it in a high court or a hovel, the sound was always the same. Slicing flesh, snapping bone and a sickening squelch if the axe was dull or the victim unlucky, the finality of the thud of the blade meeting the chopping block, and the gasp of a crowd turning away in horror, those who’d gathered out of morbid curiosity.

“When I came to this land,” the king resumed his speech, “this kingdom was mired in chaos. But with the people’s help magic was driven from the realm.” Sheer arrogance, to believe that something so much bigger than what most mortal Men could grasp could be eradicated with aimless violence. “So I declare a festival, to celebrate twenty years since the Great Dragon was captured—”

 _That_ certainly caught Merlin’s attention. They had captured a dragon? Captured, not slain, a dragon deadly enough to be called the Great? Where could they be hiding such a beast? If that was true, then surely he had grossly underestimated the Men of Camelot. But from what he’d seen so far, maybe it was just some deformed beast or small wyvern— hell, it could even be an artifact or a symbol for something.

“And Camelot freed from the evil of sorcery. Let the celebrations begin.” The king raised his arms, basking in the attention of peasants like some sort of self-made idol. Declaring a festival on a memory of slaughter was just in bad taste, to Merlin’s mind.

Immediately, the spell the execution had cast on the crowd was broken, as the courtyard erupted into conversation and the shuffling of feet.

And above the crowd, unbidden, rose a wailing cry. The crowd parted, ushering forth a hunched, elderly woman with matted grey hair. She clutched feebly at her dirty shawl, shaking with grief.

“There is but one evil in this land and it not magic!” She howled, warted and wrinkled face crumpled with grief and budding rage. “It is you! You, with your hatred and your ignorance. You took my son!” She pointed to his still cooling body, lying on the platform. Tears streamed down her face.

“But I promise you,” the mother’s voice turned cold, something dark churning beneath her words. “That before these celebrations are over you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son.” Her voice cracked, and she clutched her shawl tighter.

“Seize her!” The king commanded. Obviously, he would not let a threat on his son’s life stand. A public declaration of an assassination attempt was, for lack of better description, stupid.

Then, with a shriek and a strange hiss, the woman turned and curled even tighter around her shawl, squeezing what Merlin could now see was a glowing amber pendant. In a flash of light and a burst of wind, she vanished. A transportation spell housed in a crystal, albeit flawed.

Which was fantastic. Already a threat on the prince, the one person in the entire city he was required to keep alive.

Merlin dispersed with the crowd, heading for a servant’s entrance of the castle. He had a physician to find.

❮❋❯

Security at the castle was surprisingly lacking for a monarchy being threatened with regicide from an angry, teleporting sorceress. Merlin was pointed straight to the physician’s quarters, no stops along the way.

Standing at the worn door, staring at a plaque which indicated that this little nook was, indeed, the place of work and residence of the sole man in Camelot responsible for the health and well-being of the royal family and a great portion of the kingdom, Merlin came to a conclusion. It may have been a hasty one, but it had been forming ever since he’d crossed the border into Camelot’s territory.

This was going to take a lot of work.

How in all of Arda could a kingdom of Men run like this be left to govern over several warring states when it could barely run itself?

Merlin pushed open the door, a greeting on his lips for the physician, only to be met with an empty chamber.

“Hello?” He called. Hesitantly he pushed open the squeaky door, stepping into the cluttered physician’s chambers. It looked more like a laboratory or a witch’s lair (ironically enough) with all the bubbling potions, strange looking plants, books and artifacts lying about on every available surface.

“Hello?” He asked a bit louder, turning about the room. He wasn’t out, was he? No, there the man was, clothed in humble amber robes and hunched over a shelf of books, thumbing through the dusty pages from a balcony ten feet above the ground. For the narrow room it made sense that he’d been forced to expand upwards.

“Gaius?” He called louder. The man didn’t seem to notice him.

Merlin cleared his throat, loud as he could.

That got Gaius’s attention. He jerked around, quirking his lip and no doubt readying a greeting and some variation of “I’ll be down in a moment!” but before he could the railing he leaned against broke. A shower of splinters rained down, taking Gaius with them to the floor. Poor man hadn’t even had time to shout.

And Merlin, Merlin had precisely a split second to come to a decision. Would he allow his only contact, his only way into the castle and onto the staff die? Or would he reveal some secrets about himself he really didn’t want someone else knowing? At least one option had room for adaptation and danger, and not an immediate road to failure of his objective in less than a day’s time. It was time to take a gamble.

A quick whistled melody and a twitch of his hand later, a minute shuffle of his foot, and everything in the room was frozen. Suspended in time.

Knowing the spell wouldn’t last long, and keeping in mind that the longer it went on the more chance there was that someone would walk in and see an obvious use of magic, and the sentence that would follow, Merlin worked quickly. He didn’t do this often, as it was incredibly taxing and left him vulnerable afterwards, but there was really no better way to save the physician’s life. Merlin dragged a nearby mattress to the spot the physician would fall to and returned to his original place on the floor— if he was lucky the physician would be dazed enough that Merlin wouldn’t have to explain anything at all and everything could go as planned— and let go of the spell.

Time resumed and Gaius slammed into the mattress. For a moment Merlin feared that he’d been injured regardless, but after a slight groan and a shake of his head the man was on his feet and rushing towards Merlin, urgency in his eyes. Merlin’s work had not gone unnoticed, then.

“What did you just do?” Gaius asked.

“Um…” Play the fool playing the fool!

“Tell me!” The physician insisted, beginning to walk around restlessly.

“Well, I— I have no idea what happened,” Merlin stuttered.

Step one of going undercover: show yourself as the worst liar ever to grace the earth, and no one believes you’re even capable of keeping a secret.

“If anyone had seen that—” Gaius began.

Merlin cut him off nervously. “No, no that, uh. That was nothing to do with me. That, that was—”

“I know what it _was_ ,” Gaius turned from his pacing of the room. “I just want to learn where you learned how to do it.”

Oh, this was more complicated than Merlin had initially realized.

“No, I!” Merlin attempted to explain.

“How is it that you came to know magic?” Gaius continued.

“I don’t!” Merlin’s mouth was moving without thought, now. Deny, deny, like a child caught stealing honey cakes.

Gaius paused. “Where did you study?” he asked a bit slower.

Merlin simply stared at Gaius, mouth hanging open as he gathered his explanation. He hoped Húnith was right about taking a chance on this…

“Answer me!” Gaius prompted. Merlin jumped.

“I-I’ve never studied magic, or been taught,” Merlin stumbled over his words.

“Are you lying to me, boy?” Gaius narrowed his eyes.

“What do you want me to say?” Merlin asked, seemingly defeated.

“The truth,” Gaius said.

“I was born like this.” That was the ‘truth’ Merlin and Húnith had decided on. A peasant boy with innate magic powers is sent to the heart of Camelot to learn how to control his magic from a former sorcerer. He just hadn’t expected to lead with that revelation. It would have been much easier to earn the physician’s trust first, but no matter.

“That’s impossible!” Gaius replied.

It also seemed that magic in Camelot and the surrounding realms was perhaps mastered a bit differently than it was in the west. Well, whatever the case poor little Merlin wouldn’t know anything about the differences in magical etiquette and how different cultures accessed the Song.

As such, Merlin had no answers. He just stood there, accepting Gaius’s judgement and bewilderment silently.

Gaius looked away from Merlin, and he could practically see the cogs turning as he caught up to himself. “Who are you?” Gaius backtracked.

“Oh!” Merlin shrugged off his bag and began to rummage through it. This, he had actually forgotten about in the excitement. “Um… I have this letter… hold on.” He fumbled his pack once more before finally grasping the wrinkled paper at the very bottom.

“Here,” Merlin held out the letter to Gaius.

Gaius snatched it, stared at it for a moment, then dropped it to his side. “I don’t have my reading glasses,” he said by way of explanation.

“I’m Merlin,” he finally explained.

Gaius’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Húnith’s son?”

“Yes,” Merlin smiled.

“But you’re not meant to be here until Wednesday,” Gaius pointed out, smiling slightly.

Merlin paused. “It is Wednesday.”

“Oh,” Gaius said. “Right then.” He pointed behind him to a small doorway at the back wall of his chambers, hidden at first behind a large bookshelf, a table laden with all manner of bottles and specimens of flora and fauna and bubbling mixtures, a potted plant that looked suspiciously like a mandrake and was that a tank full of _leeches_? “Put your bag in there.” He directed.

“Right, yes,” Merlin started towards the room, dodging around various worktables. “Um,” he turned back to Gaius. “You won’t say anything about, um…” he gestured at the half-collapsed cot and the mess of wood and splinters littering the floor.

“No,” Gaius said firmly, shaking his head. “No.”

Merlin simply nodded and turned to go to what he supposed would be his room.

“Although, Merlin!” Gaius called. Merlin turned.

“I suppose I should say thank you.” Gaius smiled.

Merlin smiled back, but he was acutely aware of the eyes following him as he closed the thin wooden door behind him.

He surveyed the room as he dropped his things onto the small cot. It was a cramped room, with rounded walls, a single dresser, and a small table crammed in the tiny bedroom. There was a single window, tall and narrow, which allowed a single slit of light to fall across whatever floor was still visible.

Merlin strode over to the window, pushing it open and allowing himself a centering breath of fresh air, a welcome reprieve from the air in the physician’s chambers, which was somehow rich and acidic all at once, carrying a dizzying mixture of vibrant scents. There was a tang of salt on the air, and if Merlin was not careful, watching the waves break upon the cliffs far below this tiny tower, in a tiny wing of a Mannish citadel, listening to the far off cries of gulls and fishermen, he could almost imagine himself back home. In an altogether different shining city on an altogether different coast.

It would not do to dwell on such things. Merlin knew nothing about the West, much less the Far West, and had never even seen a sea before this one.

❮❋❯

Gaius read the letter from his old friend Húnith by candlelight.

 _Dear Gaius_ , it read. _I turn to you for I feel lost, and alone. I do not know who to trust. It is every mother’s fate to think her child is special, and yet I would give my life that Merlin were not so._

Indeed, if Merlin’s demonstration earlier had been any indication. Gaius knew no spells which could simply make things _stop_ like that, so instinctually and without any sort of incantation. There had been a whistle though. A rudimentary way to channel his focus, maybe? Gaius would have to work with him on that, whistling when anything odd happened would get the boy found out very quickly.

 _Ours is a small village and he is so clearly at odds with people here that if he were to remain, I fear what would become of him._ Gaius knew well the suspicion which went rampant in small villages, especially the small ones on the frontier to the badlands to the west. They protected their own, and only their own. Merlin, being unusual and posing a danger to their livelihood would have faced threats indeed…

_He needs someone who might guide him, be a friend to him, someone who might help him find purpose— or restraint— for his gifts. I beg you, if you understand a mother’s love for her son, keep him safe._

Really, sending him such a wide-eyed, naïve boy, with so much to live for and even more to lose. It wasn’t fair.

Gaius wasn’t going to say no in the first place. Having met the boy was enough. Gaius just hoped he could keep Merlin alive long enough to know him.

❮❋❯

“ _Merlin_ …” a voice whispered, unnatural and strange. Merlin woke immediately, remaining limp on his cot and looking about his room. Not a soul.

“ _Merlin_ …” the voice said again. It did not come from without, but rather within, Merlin realized. But no one in all the kingdoms of the East should know the mind arts, none who could master _ósanwë-kenta_. Could they?

“ _Merlin_ …” the voice echoed through his mind once more, then faded to nothing.

The practitioner was either inexperienced or an ass, just repeating his name over and over to get his attention. And his cover name, regardless. That meant that whoever was trying to contact Merlin was either an idiot who half-learned _ósanwë_ and for some odd reason took interest in the physician’s peasant ward (highly unlikely), or it was someone Erestor knew, had likely pissed off in the past, and was trying to screw with him in the middle of an undercover operation (very likely).

The sun shone gently through the window, peeking above the clouds just above the horizon. He should probably rouse himself anyway. He had work to do, and he was sure that Gaius would keep him busy.

“I got you water,” Gaius scowled. “You didn’t wash last night.”

“Sorry,” Merlin said lamely. He wished he’d had more intel on things like hygiene and other customs, but he’d pick it up soon enough. And he supposed that it wouldn’t be unusual for a physician to demand a higher degree of cleanliness— he knew for a fact that at least the townsfolk of Ealdor did not bathe daily, sometimes not even weekly. Obviously, in such a shining city upon a hill, things would be different.

“Have some breakfast.” Gaius sat down a bowl at the table, and Merlin sat down obligingly. Only to see… Eru, what was this? Maybe things really wouldn’t be different in Camelot.

Merlin wasn’t one to turn down food (according to most others, he had an iron stomach from his line of work), but even he was hesitant to put spoon to mouth when his breakfast consisted of this pale, lumpy, oozing… slop.

Picking through it like a child may have been in character for Merlin, but the action was entirely genuine. And it probably would have continued like that, Merlin despondently poking at his breakfast (Was this from the kitchens? Was Gaius just a bad cook? Where had he gotten this?), but it seemed Gaius had other plans. He not-so-subtly slid the full bucket of water previously spoken of off the edge of the table.

Showtime for his ‘instinctive magic.’ Was the physician testing him, perhaps?

Like before, Merlin used a subtle form of casting he’d perfected over the years to slow time on the object of focus to a near halt. With a simplified tune, originally intended for a flute but adapted to a split second’s whistled melody, and a few minute twitches in his hands and feet adapted from some spells done through dance, the bucket was suspended midair. No Mannish incantation, so it appeared instinctive.

Merlin and Gaius looked at the bucket, both with a sort of muted bemusement. Looked at each other. Looked back to the bucket. Merlin let go of the spell, and the bucket dropped to the floor, spilling its contents all over the floor and Merlin’s feet.

“How did you do that?” Gaius immediately turned to Merlin. Here with the questions, again. “Did you incant a spell in your mind?” He leaned very close to Merlin’s face, squinting into his eyes as if he could see into his mind he closer he got.

“I don’t know any spells,” Merlin insisted.

“So what did you do? There must be something? Like yesterday, what was that you did then, the whistle?” Damn, he’d heard that. Merlin had hoped with the added distance he wouldn’t have heard the whistle— time-suspension was one of his most taxing abilities, and it was only foul luck that the most draining ace up his sleeve was the one he’d been forced to build the idea that he had some sort of instinctive magical aptitude upon. This one _had_ to be done with some sort of audible sound, humming or _ósanwë_ wouldn’t work at all, and the bigger the task, the louder and longer the song had to be.

“Just a way to focus it, I guess.” That, at least, was not a lie, even if his meaning and the meaning Gaius would take from it were entirely different.

“So is that how you incant it, somehow?” Gaius was a smart man, and he looked even more intrigued (and impressed) by the second. Time to fix that.

“No,” Merlin looked down nervously. “No, it just sort of happens, normally. I figured out that if I do the whistle, or something like that, it normally helps… control it, I guess.”

Gaius just stared at the puddle on the floor, nodding. Merlin grabbed a mop he’d spotted behind a tall plant (he very much hoped it was not Maiar’s Trumpet) and set to cleaning up the mess in a vain attempt to end the conversation.

“Well,” Gaius sighed. “Then I guess we’d better keep you out of trouble.”

❮❋❯

It had been decided that Gaius would employ Merlin as an assistant of sorts until the physician could find a proper job for Merlin among the castle staff. The man likely thought Merlin would be somewhat inept at the job— indeed, he had no interest in it, but for entirely different reasons. Leeches and bloodletting, shoddy potions and bacteria infested bandages, that was what being a physician here entailed in the best of times. If he wasn’t careful, his knowledge of elven medicine could expose his identity, so it was best he stayed away from Camelot’s version of medicine as much as possible.

Unfortunately, that did not save him from being Gaius’s errand boy.

After a few deliveries through the winding corridors of Camelot’s castle, Gaius sent Merlin to fetch some exotic southern herbs from a vendor in the market. To do that, Merlin had to walk past the training grounds for the knights. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would be able to get his first glimpse of who exactly he was supposed to be influencing— sorry, _guiding_.

Merlin wasn’t impressed.

“Where is the target?” A young man, clothed in finer clothes and armor than the rest of the knights. His hair was unusually light, a pale blond that shone in the sunlight. It was even somewhat oddly reminiscent of the extremely light hair of the Sindar and Teleri, if it wasn’t cut so short.

A servant opposite him, shuffling his feet and hunching his shoulders, barely meeting the prince’s eyes.

“There, sir?” The servant gestured at the target.

The target laid to the east, with the morning sun hanging behind it. Had it been a clear day, perhaps it could have been somewhat justified, but the clouds obscured it enough that one could look directly at it.

“It’s into the sun,” the prince pointed out.

“It’s not that bright, sir,” the servant said. Wrong response.

“A bit like you, then?” A childish jab worthy of a child flew from the prince’s lips, his lip curling upwards at the taunt.

The knights laughed on cue.

“I’ll put the target at the other end, sir?” The servant sounded defeated, like this was a daily occurrence. It likely was.

The servant picked up the round wooden target and carried it across the training grounds.

“Watch this,” the prince laughed, a cruel glint in his eye. Drawing a knife from his belt, he threw it at the target, servant still towing it across the lawn. It landed with a solid _thunk!_ nearly at the center of the target (impressive aim, regardless), and the poor servant popped up above the edge of the target.

“Hey, hang on!” the servant protested.

“Don’t stop!” The prince commanded. “Come on, keep moving!” He thew another knife, which landed a bit lower this time.

The servant jumped to action, desperately running to and fro across the field, folding up as much of his body behind the target as he could.

 _Thunk!_ The third knife landed even lower.

 _Thunk!_ The fourth nearly hit the servant’s hand.

 _Thunk!_ If this kept up, that poor boy would get a knife in his thigh. And for what? A bully?

 _Thunk!_ Fumbling the target, the servant dropped it, and promptly ran towards it desperately as it started rolling towards the street. He didn’t catch it, but it rolled to a stop right by Merlin’s feet. He planted a foot solidly on the target and restrained the urge to grab a knife from it.

Merlin hated bullies.

“Hey!” He got the prince’s attention. “Listen, that’s enough.”

“Excuse me?” The boy looked pissed. What, not used to being treated like an equal instead of some divine being incapable of mistakes?

“You’ve had your fun, my friend, let him be.”

“Do I know you?” The prince walked forward, a hand on his hilt as if it would intimidate Merlin. It probably should have, theoretically, but follow through was the most important part of a plan. Merlin was not one to back down.

“I’m Merlin.” He stuck his hand out to shake with an idiotic smile. Consistency was another integral part of a plan. Perhaps Merlin was just honorable, naïve, _and_ stupid. That might work nicely, actually…

“So I don’t know you. Yet you called me friend?” The prince was, obviously, not going to honor some dumb peasant who didn’t even know their prince on sight with his name. It seemed he was also offended by his lack of knowledge. Intent on teaching Merlin a lesson, then?

“That was my mistake,” Merlin replied.

“Yes.”

“Yeah…” Merlin had come to a decision. Maybe he could teach this princeling a lesson. He dared a look over the prince’s shoulder, assessing the crowd of loyal knights just feet away, watching his every move. No, he wouldn’t do it here. Maybe he could try something else. With the prince’s temperament, it was almost sure to work.

“I’d never have a friend who could be such an ass,” Merlin shrugged, and turned to leave.

The prince laughed meanly. “Nor I one who could be so stupid. Tell me, _Merlin_ , do you know how to walk on your knees?”

Resorting to threats already?

“No,” Merlin played along.

“Would you like me to help you?” The prince fingered the pommel of his sword idly.

“No, I’m quite alright,” Merlin said cheerfully.

“Oh? And how would you stop me? What are you going to do?” The prince paced closer, trying to intimidate Merlin. He did not step back.

Merlin just shook his head and laughed slightly, as if he had a leg up on the prince.

“What are you going to do to me? Huh?” The prince stepped back now, sensing an audience. “Be my guest. Come on!” He spread his arms, making himself into an open target. Attacking a member of the royal house, even if goaded, would mean an immediate arrest. For a punch or two as a result of a boyish scuffle the punishment would be mild, yet still it was not the way Merlin had planned his first impression. But if he walked away now, he would be marked as a coward in the prince’s eyes, and his counsel would never be heard, no matter what station he rose to.

“Come on!”

Merlin hesitated. He looked about himself at the crowd of merchants and servants, clusters of passersby stopping to watch the prince antagonize some poor, lowborn kid.

“Come on,” the prince sneered, leaning in close.

Merlin threw a punch. It was an awful punch, weak and slow and much too easy to dodge, and the prince had him in a hold in less than two seconds.

“I’ll throw you in jail for that,” the prince gloated into Merlin’s ear.

“Who are you, the king?” Merlin spat back as if it wasn’t entirely obvious who he’d attempted to strike.

“No.” The prince spoke as if Merlin were a particularly dumb animal. “I’m his son, Prince Arthur.”

At least Merlin finally got a name for his trouble. He still thought that Húnith was a bit mad for refusing to tell him the name of the prince, claiming it part of his cover as a stupid commoner from the outskirts of the kingdom, but honestly, who wouldn’t know the name of the crown prince? She’d probably just done it to antagonize him after he’d teased her about her cooking.

And with that, Prince Arthur jerked Merlin to his knees and signaled for guards to take him to the dungeons.

❮❋❯

As far as dungeons went, Camelot’s were actually quite comfortable. Merlin would know, he’d spent quite a lot of time examining them from both sides of the bars. Aside from straw it even had some cloth that Merlin had managed to wad up into a serviceable pillow.

Merlin was sleeping soundly until just before sunrise, when he was assaulted once again with subpar _ósanwë_.

“ _Merlin_ …” The voice was louder this time.

He didn’t even bother moving. Merlin laid on the ground, limp as if still asleep, and extended his senses. He wasn’t completely useless in the mind arts, and he was beginning to get fed up with his secret admirer.

“ _Merlin_ …”

Surely, they couldn’t be this stupid? It had to be a trick, because this person seemed to be putting forth a beacon for Merlin. Only, it wasn’t there for him to find, as if he would know what it was. No, this twisted bit of mind magic was being used to subconsciously prompt him to investigate the source— essentially it was simply set to pester him, but the caster had no protections on their own mind. And they seemed to be somehow _directly below him_.

So now he had two more options, on top of their ambiguous motive. Were they sending out a decoy for him, leading Merlin on a wild goose chase, or was this buffoon actually, somehow, sending Merlin subliminal telepathic messages from somewhere underneath the Camelot dungeons?

Thankfully, before Merlin could ponder the annoyance much longer, another, much more tangible voice broke his reverie.

“Merlin?” Gaius called, jerking open the cell door after a guard had unlocked it. “Mer— ugh!” He made a sound of disgust. “I can’t believe you! The one thing that someone like you should do is keep your head down,” he enunciated carefully. “And what do you do?”

Merlin opened his mouth to respond.

“ _You_ act like an idiot!” Gaius finished. He sighed heavily. “I managed to pull a few strings to get you released.”

Outwardly, Merlin thanked him profusely. But what did he mean, ‘pull a few strings?’ For a minor offense like that, wouldn’t they have released him anyway, given he served a mild punishment?

“However, there is still a small price to pay,” Gaius cut off Merlin’s endless stream of ‘thank you’s. “Don’t thank me yet.”

The punishment couldn’t be that bad, could it?

❮❋❯

The punishment was _that bad._

Pull a few strings Gaius, really? Maybe he pulled a few strings to make it worse! Merlin was never going to get the smell of rotten produce out of his nose.

This was the most humiliating thing he’d done in a very long time. Standing locked in shabby wooden stocks, having rotten vegetables thrown at his face by jeering children and being serenaded with the laughs of every adult in the area— including Gaius!— may have actually been the most humiliating experience of his life.

The children ran off, presumably to find more ammunition. Merlin welcomed the reprieve, however brief, and attempted to shake out as many clumps of plants from his hair as he could. That was until a woman approached him. He felt as if he’d seen her before, somewhere. She had tanned skin and dark, curly hair.

“Hello?” She said. “I’m Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen. I’m the Lady Morgana’s maid.”

“Hi, I’m Merlin.” He stuck out his arm as far as he could manage, what with the stocks in the way, and shook her hand. “Though most people just call me idiot.”

“No!” Gwen laughed. ”I saw what you did. You were very brave.”

“I was stupid,” he retorted.

“Well, I’m glad you walked away. You couldn’t have beaten him.”

What would a cocky boy with secret magical talent say…

“I… I could beat him,” he said weakly.

Gwen looked him up and down.

“…You think?” She asked. “Because you don’t look like one of those big, strong, muscly type fellows.” Oh, the poor dear was trying to be nice.

Merlin acted playfully indignant on her behalf. “Thanks,” he said sarcastically.

“Oh!” Gwen held up her hands placatingly. “I’m sure you’re stronger than you look.” It was nearly painfully obvious that she was trying very hard not to laugh. “It’s just that Arthur’s one of those real rough, tough, save-the-world kind of men. And, well…”

Chivalric, really? That bully of a princeling?

“Well what?” Merlin asked.

“You don’t look like that,” Gwen said. The words themselves would have been mocking, but Gwen’s tone carried the intonation that she thought no less of him because of his appearance. Interesting, and he probably would have laughed along with her even if he had actually taken offense to her words.

Merlin made a bit of a show of glancing around him. As anticipated, Gwen leaned forward.

“I’m in disguise,” Merlin whispered.

Gwen drew back and stared at him for a moment, and in that split second Merlin’s heart was in his throat. He didn’t like putting these ideas in people’s heads, but sometimes this was the best way for them to disregard the possibility if things went wrong later on.

Gwen laughed suddenly, smiling brightly. Merlin laughed with her, relieved.

“Well, I think it’s great that you stood up to him,” Gwen said.

“Really?” Merlin asked.

“Arthur’s a bully, and everyone thought you were a real hero.” Ah, she must have meant the servants. It was a wonder no one had stood up to him before. The little shit needed it.

Oh. Oh no. The children were back. One little girl held a rotted out pumpkin nearly the size of her own head and he could smell it from where he stood. Two brothers had somehow dragged an entire crate of thoroughly rotten tomatoes and were distributing them among the other children. Of all the times to be reminded of a younger Peredhel, this was not it, and this was not the reminder he wanted.

“If you excuse me, Gwen,” he eyed the pack of children with trepidation. “My… _fans_ … are waiting.”

She left fairly quickly, and Merlin was still watching her go when the first rotten tomato landed squarely on his cheek. He turned, slowly, and there were the two brothers, grinning like sharks.

❮❋❯

“Do you want some vegetables with that?” Gaius asked after Merlin had just sat down to lunch.It had taken him forever to wash out the smell. He never wanted to see a tomato _again._

“I know you’re still angry with me…”

“Your mother asked me to look after you, did you know that?” Gaius asked, sitting down. Didn’t listen a whole lot, did he?

“Yes,” Merlin muttered.

“What did your mother say to you about your gifts?” Gaius asked, changing the subject subtly. Actually, no, it wasn’t subtle at all and Merlin didn’t appreciate the shift, because he did not feel like delving into magical theory and pretending to know nothing about magical theory at the moment.

“That I was special.” Vague was best.

“You are special,” Gaius nodded, his eyes suddenly grave. “The likes of which I’ve never seen before. You see, magic requires incantations, spells. It takes years to study.”

Oh, dear. Maybe the plan he’d concocted with Húnith was a bit too outlandish in this aspect. After all, it was impossible to use magic, or in other words access a minor part of the Song, the fabric of Arda, without using some sort of craft. Be it through smithing or weaving, song or dance, some act of skill had to be performed. Here, the less effective but still serviceable spoken incantations. It didn’t just _happen_ , and it was only because Merlin’s life had so often depended on being able to cast a spell while being watched and leave no indication that he’d cast a spell at all that it seemed like nothing had happened. Húnith’s reasoning was that while studying magic was a crime with a justifiable punishment, being _born_ was not something that was punishable. Thus, they had created a persona who’d been born with magic. Unpunishable and pitied. Or so they had hoped.

“What I saw you do was elemental. Instinctive,” Gaius continued, unaware of Merlin’s growing anxiety.

But wait a moment. Gaius seemed to know a bit more about magic than your average physician would. Maybe Merlin could turn this conversation to his favor yet. Merlin spouted some nonsense about purpose for his ‘gifts’ and his inability to do anything while in Camelot— a standard mantra that he could feel would be repeated many times during his time here. Then, Gaius gave him an opening.

“You’re a question that’s never been posed before, Merlin.”

“Did you ever study magic?” Merlin asked, as if the idea had only just occurred to him.

Gaius looked like he was trying to swallow a frog. “Uther banned all such work twenty years ago,” he said at length. Well, that was answer enough. Normally, the standard response when asked if you had done something punishable by death was a very vehement “no.”

“Why?” Merlin asked, armed with a childlike curiosity.

“People used magic for the wrong ends at the time. It threw the natural order into chaos.” Gaius explained. Only, that really wasn’t what Merlin had asked, and it was so blatantly obvious a court-issued description of events. The man should know better than that. Kings didn’t just turn genocide into a state institution half-way through their rule for no reason. “Uther made it his mission to destroy everything from back then, even the dragons.”

Even the _what?_

 _“What?”_ Merlin spluttered through his broth. Images of Ancalagon, Glaurung, and countless other incarnations of those horrible beasts flashed behind his eyelids as he so elegantly choked on soup.

“Yes, all of them.” Gaius had completely misread Merlin’s shock for shock at the systematic eradication of dragons (and was that a bit of bitterness in his tone? Did they he have some sort of illusion that dragons were anything but inventions of the Enemy?). No, he was simply shocked that the men of this small kingdom could manage to bring down even _one_.

“But there was one dragon Uther chose not to kill. He kept it as an example,” Gaius said as soon as Merlin’s coughing fit had subsided. It took nearly all of his willpower to react not with horror that they’d for some reason left a dragon hanging around, but instead with intrigue that there was still a beast of ‘magic’ around.

“He imprisoned it in a cave deep beneath the castle, where no one can free it.” Merlin took back every favorable thought he’d had about Gaius. This man must be insane, because the bitterness and regret in his eyes when he spoke of the imprisoned dragon were very real. Merlin was actually having a hard time believing that Uther had actually imprisoned the dragon. Perhaps he had simply killed it? After all, how would they get a beast of that size into an underground cave without demolishing the entire cliffside on which Camelot was built?

“Ah, anyways, eat up!” Gaius spoke into the ensuing silence. “I’ll need you to take a preparation to Lady Helen, for her voice.”

❮❋❯

The walk to Lady Helen’s room brought him to a new wing of the castle, much more decorative with wider corridors and ornamental murals and tapestries. A series of stained glass windows dappled the floor with many-colored light as he passed through. He needed to begin memorizing the layout of the castle.

Lady Helen, the guest singer for Uther’s celebratory banquet, was rooming at the end of the guest wing, in what was arguably the best room in the hallway.

Raising his hand to knock on the door, he noticed it was slightly ajar. He gently pushed it open.The room was covered in bright green rugs and gilded furniture, with an extremely large gold vanity taking up most of the left wall. Oddly enough, the mirror was covered with a blanket.

Seeing as Lady Helen was absent, and Merlin was certainly not going to attempt to track her down and even more certainly not going to wait in a Lady’s chambers for who knew how long, Merlin let himself in. He set the tonic on the vanity beside a huge bouquet of flowers, and turned to leave.

He paused mid-step.

Something wasn’t right.

He turned around again, inspecting the vanity. There, the first drawer down, left open only a crack, exposing a few strands of straw. Merlin eased open the drawer, withdrawing a straw doll with several puncture marks on the chest. Odd… And what was that beneath it?

There was a small inconsistency in the side of the drawer, the grains of the wood not quite lining up. Merlin pressed cautiously at the small spot and was rewarded with a faint click as the bottom of the drawer popped open, revealing a hidden compartment. In it laid a leather-bound book, intricately carved with strange runes (ones that looked suspiciously like a garbled sort of Quenya), overflowing with loose papers and parchment, and tied shut with twine.

Heeled shoes, clicking on the tile and echoing through the corridor outside. Merlin hurriedly replaced the book and strange doll, sliding the hidden compartment shut and closing the drawer, making sure to leave it just a little open, as it had been before.

He turned from the vanity just as the Lady Helen entered the room. She had flowing dark hair and wore a bright lilac gown with golden embroidery, accompanied by a simply _ravishing_ haughty pout.

“What are you doing in here, boy?” She demanded, none too kindly.

“I’m, um,” Merlin acted flustered. “I was asked to deliver this.” He reached behind himself to grab the tonic from the vanity. As he did, he glimpsed the Lady’s reflection from the corner of his eye, in a small corner of the vanity’s mirror which the blanket had not reached. She did not look the same.

“Here you go, my lady,” Merlin handed her the bottle. He smiled genially at her, and got a tentative nod in return as he left.

As he’d thought, there was trouble brewing in Camelot. A kingdom with a king this ruthless, a royal guard so careless, and a policy which made enemies of countless individuals with power— it was a wonder there hadn’t been any assassins who’d succeeded in killing at least one, if not both members of the royal family.

The voodoo doll, which Merlin had seen used by practitioners in the lands of Harad and Umbar. The magic book, filled with that twisted form of Quenya Men likely used for incantations. And, most damning for the Lady Helen, the reflection in the covered mirror, showing her as not a youthful and beautiful lady, but a wrinkled and pockmarked woman, hunched and greyed with age. In fact, the same woman he had seen in the square, just a few days prior. The one who had sworn revenge. It was no surprise that a magic user had attempted to use an illusion to mask themselves and infiltrate the castle, likely killing the true Lady Helen and assuming her identity. This woman was crafty and likely quite skilled, as illusion spells were challenging even at the best of times, and even more so when made to endure for an extended period of time. Only, this was a flawed illusion. Merlin did not have the specifics, but something in the mirror must have proved as a foil to her incomplete illusion charm, be it some component of the mirror or the reflection itself.

Merlin would find out. He certainly wouldn’t allow the prince to be killed by this wolf in sheep’s clothing. But he wouldn’t kill her, not here and not now. Too many variables, too high a chance of implication, of conviction.

Merlin would wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed! Part 2 of The Dragon's Call is already written, so it should be out within the week. As always, I hope to hear back from you guys!


	3. Spices and Sardines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin gets into another fight with the prince, winds up in the stocks, and finally finds the source of that mysterious voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you guys like it too! This should wrap up events for The Dragon's Call.

Merlin made the walk down the hill to the marketplace once more, this time sent by Gaius to purchase more bandages since they’d recently run out, as the only serviceable ones had been used to patch up some knights returning from a run in with bandits at the northern border, and the remaining number so ridden with moth holes that they’d nearly disintegrated when touched. He’d also had his first run in with the master of the kitchens, one Miss Audrey, a terrifying woman who Merlin had a new respect for, especially after he’d learned about some unforgivable infraction Gaius had committed which had banned him from eating from the kitchens daily. Merlin had resolved to never, ever get on Miss Audrey’s bad side. (She’d reminded him, terrifyingly enough, of Rog in his forges, wielding her wooden ladel like a war hammer). So when Miss Audrey had expressed a need for some spices, Merlin had opted to fetch them for her.

That was until, with the spice vendor’s stall in sight, Merlin heard the clink of armor and a few laughs from behind him.

“How’s your knee walking coming along?” Prince Arthur called.

Merlin kept walking.

“Aw, come on! Don’t run away!” Arthur jeered.

Merlin stopped, seemingly irritated. In truth he felt like the cat who’d caught the canary.

“From you?” Merlin responded angrily, still refusing to face Arthur.

“Oh thank God,” Arthur said. “I thought you were deaf as well as dumb.”

“Look, I’ve told you you’re an ass,” Merlin turned. “I just didn’t realize you were a royal one.”

Arthur was flanked by two men in fine clothing, presumably some of his knightly thugs. Arthur himself was clothed more simply, still wearing his pauldron, vambrace, and gauntlet on his right arm as well as his gorget. Merlin would have assumed he had simply left some of his armor on from training, but due to a lack of sweat and the early hour, Merlin had to surmise that Arthur had come out here aiming for a fight. The presence of two maces only confirmed that further.

Either way, Merlin was not about to fight off three men and try to make it seem as if he was a clumsy fool at the same time. Even he would slip up in that undertaking.

“Oh? What are you going to do? Got your daddy’s men to protect you?” Merlin mocked.

Arthur laughed, looking at Merlin’s spindly frame and baggy peasant clothing.

“I could take you apart with one blow.” It wasn’t so much a boast as a statement. Had Merlin been a normal peasant, it would have been true. Luckily, he wasn’t, and being too cocky for his own good was the only way he’d be able to win even a modicum of this brat of a prince’s respect at the moment.

“I could take you apart with less than that,” Merlin retorted.

“Are you sure?”

Merlin furrowed his brows in mock concentration, then nodded to himself. He tugged off his jacket and threw it to the ground.

Arthur laughed, partly in a mean sort of joy and partly in incredulity.

“Here you go, big man.” Arthur threw a mace at Merlin, who jumped backwards and fumbled it spectacularly. He picked it up, holding it nervously at his side with an inexperienced grip.

“Well? Come on then.” Arthur began to swing the mace threateningly, twirling it quickly over his head with a deft flick of his wrist. “I warn you, I’ve been trained to kill since birth.”

“Wow! And how long have you been training to be a prat?”

That gave Arthur pause. He lowered his mace and looked to the sky, as if asking the clouds and the songbirds why Merlin was such an insubordinate fool.

“You can’t address me like that.”

Of course Merlin could. He simply shouldn’t, since he was a commoner and Arthur the crown prince of Camelot. His station implied that he deserved respect. But lucky for him, Merlin wasn’t much in the habit of giving respect where it wasn’t due when he could help it.

“Sorry.” Merlin slowly lowered himself into a purposefully shallow bow, lowering his eyes. “How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?” He looked up mockingly.

That should just about do it.

Arthur’s knight friends, and actually the entire crowd which had gathered to watch the show, stood silent, waiting. And they weren’t disappointed.

Arthur’s face reddened in anger. “Why, you!” He growled, swinging his mace at Merlin’s head.

Merlin only barely ducked out of the way, scrambling backwards and backing away from Arthur. And Arthur pursued Merlin further into the throng of the marketplace.

See, Merlin had been itching to teach Arthur a proper lesson. He knew that even if he became a servant in a good position he wouldn’t be able to influence Arthur until years later, and by then these bad habits would have set in for good, rotting away at whatever good character lay buried underneath the prince’s pompous façade. Indeed, he might already be a bit too late. The only way for him to make any improvements at all were to begin chipping away at it now.

But that begged the question: what was the best way to educate a spoiled, worshipped boy prince such as this? Merlin’s mind went back to the most valuable lessons he had witnessed (and occasionally participated in) back in the earlier days. In shining elven cities, in the lavish and color-drenched markets where princelings fought and lost and embarrassed themselves, thrown into a fruit stall or spice basket or (Merlin’s favorite) covered in fish guts, and then teased about the experience until they eventually mellowed out.

And Merlin was in a market now! How convenient.

Merlin continued backing away from Arthur, whom had for some reason thought it a good idea to stand atop a wagon to intimidate Merlin. First order of business was to get rid of his mace. That would just get in the way for what he had planned. Merlin weakly tried to swing the mace, but the spikes got caught in a poultry cage hanging behind him. He half-heartedly tried to free it as Arthur got nearer and nearer, making the cage swing wildly (he sent a mental apology to the startled hen), then simply abandoned it to dodge another swipe from Arthur’s mace.

So it went, with Merlin ducking and dodging and tumbling to and fro between, over, and under countless stalls and Arthur in hot pursuit, destroying quite a sizable amount of merchandise.

Merlin had managed to stumble backwards to his favorite part of the marketplace, a narrow and winding maze of stalls and shopfronts crammed in together, creating ever-changing alleyways, shifting like a living labyrinth. The tents and awnings creating a mottled patchwork of shadows and light. It could be quite disorienting if you weren’t careful, and one Arthur Pendragon was much too angry to pay attention to little, insignificant things hidden in sudden patches of shadow. Like overturned crates, for example.

Merlin kicked a crate onto its side just in front of Arthur’s foot. The prince promptly stomped on the edge of it, sending the wood straight into his shin. That would bruise quite nicely.

“Ow!” Arthur yelled petulantly, his face screwing up with rage, eyes bulging comically. He savagely kicked the box to the side, stomping forward with fervor, swinging his head from side to side in search of Merlin. He looked like an enraged bull. Temper, temper.

Merlin just so happened to be hiding behind a fruit stall (that was selling some tantalizing looking apples), which just so happened to be in the narrowest part of the alley. A chokepoint, if you will. Merlin grabbed an apple and tossed it into a stall behind him, sending it straight into a stack of armor and drawing the prince’s attention.

Arthur charged straight past Merlin, catching his ankles on the rope Merlin had pulled taut and sprawling face first into the muddy path.

“Merlin!” He roared, but Merlin was already running again, laughing somewhat manically. Arthur picked himself up, and Merlin could almost see flames shooting out of his eyes. He was gripping the mace hard enough that his knuckles were white and Merlin could have sworn he heard them crack.

Merlin ran and ran, leading Arthur deeper and deeper into the maze. A tin of glass marbles caught his eye. Deftly, he snagged the edge of it, sending hundreds of little beads onto the flagstones behind him. He couldn’t resist chucking an overripe tomato at Arthur, which splattered onto his already soiled tunic.

Wow. Merlin hadn’t thought his face could get any redder.

Arthur howled in anger, sprinting forward and spinning his mace above his head fast enough that Merlin was a bit worried he would actually injure his wrist. He howled even _louder_ when he hit the marbles, and landed flat on his back. The mace somehow managed to fly straight up, lodging itself into the eaves of the blacksmith’s shop.

Merlin barked out a short laugh and sent a cheeky grin at Arthur, who was still struggling to get to his feet.

“I’ll kill you,” Arthur spat. “I’m going to throttle you for that, you little worm!”

“Gotta catch me first!” Merlin chirped back.

“Argh!”

That complexion seriously wasn’t healthy. Merlin hoped Arthur didn’t burst a blood vessel.

The chase was almost at its end. There was just one more place Merlin wanted to take Arthur. It might even help him cool off.

On Merlin lead Arthur, winding out of the narrow district of the market and back to the wider cobbled roads. Merlin ducked through a doorway covered in layers of brilliant hanging silks, bounding through the cluttered seamstress’s shop to the other doorway.

“‘Scuse me, sorry!” He shouted as he barreled through.

He heard a feral growl and pounding feet on floorboard behind him. Damn, Arthur was close. Good.

He ducked through the doorway, pushing aside more silks and immediately skidding to the side, pressing himself against the side of the building.

Arthur burst through the doorway, nearly ripping down some of the silks in his rampage.

Now!

Merlin whistled sharply, drawing Arthur’s attention. Before the prince could even take a step Merlin opened his palm and blew a handful of turmeric powder straight into his Royal Highness’s face.

“Ah!” Arthur stumbled back, frantically wiping at his eyes. Unfortunately for him, the stalls behind him were a bit more… _slippery_ than most.

Arthur’s scrambling feet made contact with a fish on the ground, barely the size of Merlin’s hand, but it was enough to send him flying head over heels directly into the closest, stinking barrel of sardines the fish market had to offer.

Unfortunately for Merlin, the barrel tipped over with Arthur’s momentum, sending him spilling out onto the street along with countless dead fish. At least the copious amount of fish slime had seemed to wash the spice from Arthur’s eyes, enough for him to glare angrily at Merlin. Arthur approached Merlin again.

This time, however, Merlin would give him a shot. He couldn’t have the future king of Camelot completely losing face to some commoner boy who fought dirty. Merlin pretended to slip on the wet cobblestones and pinwheeled his arms to catch his balance again, and by that time Arthur was upon him. A savage punch to his stomach and his temple sent Merlin sprawling to the ground.

He was dizzied enough that he saw double for a moment, two images of Arthur shaking himself like a wet dog solidifying together. Two guardsmen hauled Merlin up, likely intending to haul him off to the dungeons again for a harsher punishment.

“Wait, let him go,” Arthur commanded.

This was a surprise. The guards seemed to share his bewilderment.

“He may be an idiot, but he’s a brave one.” Arthur stared at Merlin like some sort of puzzle. “There’s something about you, Merlin. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.” He turned to leave.

Merlin coughed weakly. Arthur knew how to punch, and unfortunately his Mannish disguise went a bit deeper than the skin.

“What, brilliant and cunning?” Merlin snarked.

“Brilliantly annoying, maybe.” Arthur (rather childishly) tossed a fish he’d extracted from his armor over his shoulder at Merlin. “You’d better shut up and get lost before I change my mind about arresting you.”

Merlin didn’t doubt that, so he retraced his steps back to where he had left his jacket. He had some purchases to make. He was pleased. It seemed Arthur did have some nobility, some kingliness hidden beneath all that pomp.

Marketplaces truly were the best of schoolyards.

❮❋❯

“How could you be so foolish?” Gaius admonished.

“He needed to be taught a lesson.”

Merlin was beginning to get fed up with the physician’s imagined wisdoms. True, he was a good man and Merlin probably could have liked him as a friend, but he could not be constantly butting heads with the man about things like this. But making Gaius understand without truly understanding, and on top of that convincing him while acting like a pouting child, was going to be difficult.

“Magic must be studied, mastered and used for good, not used for idiotic pranks!” Gaius hissed, careful in his usage of the word even in his anger.

“Magic?” Merlin asked, speaking before he realized that it would have probably helped his story if he’d put what he’d done down to some subtle magic, at least to Gaius. “What magic?” Did Gaius truly believe some roughhousing like that couldn’t be achieved without magic? Was Arthur on such a pedestal?

That only made Gaius angrier.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Merlin! I know you’re not an idiot!”

“But I didn’t use any magic!”

Merlin probably should be using the magic angle to talk about his place or whatever, something about how if he couldn’t use magic he didn’t see what purpose he had in life. Call himself a nobody, nothing, say he’d be better off dead without magic. But for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was a spymaster, a lie weaver, but more than anything he was a fighter, and honest at heart. Honest to those he trusted.

He wanted to be honest to Gaius. He’d known this man for barely a week, and he genuinely wished he could be honest with him. It may have been as much for the sake of shutting him up, but maybe he should backtrack, anyway.

Gaius was still glaring at him, eyes narrowed, mouth scowling, and one eyebrow drawn up severely.

Now was the time to self depreciate. To be the lost, learning boy who needed a guide, a mentor. An orphan boy without a father figure, perhaps. Merlin still couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t fake hurt and sorrow for an honest man, wouldn’t draw out his pity like he was drawing blood from an opponent.

After all, this was his mission, and he could shape it as he liked. He wasn’t bound to the initial plan he’d made with Húnith, in dull candlelight and a silent border town.

“It was worth it,” Merlin argued, ignoring the subject of magic entirely. “He needed to be taught a lesson, and I think he learned it well enough.”

“That is not for you to decide. His image, the respect of his people, all of that is in jeaprody now.”

“What I did won’t hurt him,” Merlin rolled his eyes. “A lesson in humility was long past due for Arthur, and while I wish someone had possessed the good sense to come along and do it before I did, a lesson learned late is still a lesson learned. Besides, it might even make him more approachable.” He laughed lightly. “No one likes a brat on the throne.”

Gaius looked… Well, he looked a bit shocked. Merlin as he’d known him for the past week was a stuttering, clumsy mess of hormones and hesitancy that could barely string together a sentence without sounding like a fool.

Merlin simply sighed, and wound his way in silence back to his room. Let Gaius chew on that. Merlin was going to lick his wounds. It didn’t matter how much experience he had, a well placed punch to the temple always hurt like hell. And this fist had happened to be armored, as well as this body unused to the bite of a blade. While Merlin was not easily deterred by pain, the nerve endings were still fresh and the dull, stinging pain would certainly persist for the majority of the day.

Sitting down heavily on his cot, Merlin untied the raggedy neckerchief he wore first, before pulling off his tunic. His back was sore— he certainly would have some cuts and scrapes from skidding around the rough hewn cobblestone streets like he had. He had a newfound respect for Men; either their bodies were far less resilient than that of Elves, or the disguise he’d created was just fragile. Honestly, given those of Men he’d known in the past, he’d go with the latter option.

Unexpectedly, his door creaked open.

Gaius stood awkwardly in the doorway, holding a bucket of water and a cloth.

“Merlin,” he sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but I’m only trying to keep you alive. You know that, right?”

Merlin simply nodded, not looking up.

“People have been executed for less.” Gaius sat down beside him and began dabbing at a scrape on his arm.

“For nothing, you mean.”

Gaius did not deny it.

“Someone like you, with your gifts… You have to be careful, Merlin.” Gaius leaned over to take a closer look at Merlin’s back.

“You don’t know why I was born like this,” Merlin said. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Gaius pressed on a shallow cut. It stung, but Merlin didn’t flinch.

“I’m not a monster, am I?”

He didn’t think that, not for the reasons Gaius would think. Not anymore.

Gaius shifted to look Merlin in the eyes.

“Don’t ever think that,” he said firmly.

Logically, Merlin should have followed that with imploring questions asking why, asking about his nature, asking about anything really, using his innocent doe eyes to look vulnerable while preying for information.

“Alright, Gaius,” Merlin huffed out a weak laugh. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Gaius nodded. He held Merlin’s chin, wiping away the blood covering the right side of his face.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, Gaius cleaning and occasionally binding Merlin’s cuts and Merlin calculating his next few steps. Perhaps it would be advantageous to begin a position as a sort of scribe for their record-keeper here, or maybe Gaius would now consider him as an assistance, as much as Merlin loathed the idea, security risk as it was. But he had to get on the council somehow, and he simply didn’t know any other way, not in a kingdom with lineage-based nobility as well as royalty.

Gaius tapped his shoulder with something made of cool glass. Merlin hadn’t noticed he’d closed his eyes.

“For the pain,” Gaius held the tonic out to Merlin. He took it, cautiously.

It was an odd, red-brown color that reminded him a bit too much of the nerve scrambling hallucinogens he’d sometimes used for interrogations. Sometimes just the color had been enough to scare them into blabbering secrets, but this tonic had an odd viscosity that made it look like something Merlin wouldn’t be ingesting anytime soon. He’d prefer the pain.

“I’m alright,” he handed back the vial. “Thank you.”

Gaius looked at him strangely for a moment, searching his face. Then his eyes strayed downwards, lingering on the cord that hung around his neck.

Really, it was a wonder Gaius hadn’t noticed it before. Merlin would rather not address it at all, but since they were sharing living quarters the physician was bound to ask about it eventually.

“Where did you get that?” Gaius’s eyes were trained on the two rings hung around Merlin’s neck.

To say it was uncommon for a commoner, especially one with a background like Merlin’s, to have not one but two gold signet rings hanging around his neck was a bit of an understatement. Thankfully, Gaius knew him enough to refrain from asking if he’d stolen them.

Merlin lifted the chain over his head, wordlessly handing Gaius the rings.

One was the standard identification ring for the House of the Crow, which was carved with the image of a flying crow, holding a lily in its beak. His Crow ring was what contained the glamour, bone deep and made to last. The other ring was a bit more personal. He had asked for it to be simpler, but of course “simple” in the way Merlin meant it didn’t exist in the vocabulary of Noldorin smiths. The second ring was adorned with a butterfly, tiny and exquisitely detailed, its unfurled wings inlaid with four ‘eyes’ of brilliant amethyst. At the center of the crest was a single diamond, bordered by an eight pointed star and glittering like a fallen star.

Gaius’s eyebrows gradually climbed higher and higher, incredulity coloring his face. Merlin watched him carefully. There was a small chance Gaius would have seen these symbols, somewhere, at some point. It was a very small chance, however, and Gaius showed no recognition.

“I don’t know, exactly” Merlin shrugged. “Family heirloom, I suppose. My mum wanted me to have them with me.” Why peasants like Merlin and Húnith had rings like these, Merlin would leave up to the physician’s imagination. There really was no good explanation that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

“Yet another mystery, I suppose.” Poor Gaius sounded tired. To be fair, Merlin had probably caused more personable trouble for the aging man in the last week alone than he’d encountered in the last five years combined. The man handed back the rings and gathered up what healing supplies he’d brought with him and took his leave, sending Merlin a wink on his way out.

Oh, Merlin didn’t like that wink. That meant trouble. Visions of Gaius’s patented “revenge porridge” danced through Merlin’s mind. He groaned and fell back on his bed.

He felt older and yet younger than he had in years. It was disconcerting.

❮❋❯

“ _Merlin_ …” the voice whispered.

“ _Merlin_ …”

That was it. That was _it._

Merlin roused himself from bed and spared a glance at his window— pitch black, in the middle of the damn night— and got dressed. He was sick and tired of this. This idiot had been pestering him all week, but he had refrained from investigating it, seeing as he hadn’t noticed any suspicious looking characters, traps, or attempts on his life. Merlin didn’t like poking his nose around without at least some information under his belt, but he would risk it tonight. If he couldn’t wait this bastard out, he would go to him.

If he went angry and with one more knife than he normally carried, that was nothing to comment on.

“ _Merlin_ …”

Once he made sure Gaius wouldn’t miss him (sound asleep), he slipped past the guards and made his way to the deserted servant passageways. Narrow and lightless, most wouldn’t dare to try to navigate the tangle of hallways in darkness without a torch. Merlin wasn’t most.

Lucky for him, the mysterious voice didn’t halt after three calls like it had previously. Following their trail was so easy he could have walked it blind and deaf. Like a game for children, he continued in the direction the voice was strongest, leading him back to the dungeons.

“ _Merlin_ …”

There were two more guards, idly playing dice near the bottom of the staircase. Tossing a stray pebble into a side corridor sent them to investigate the noise, and Merlin took to a path that seemed almost forgotten. The cells in this area were smaller, packed with nothing but cold stones and chains. If it wasn’t so dark, Merlin probably could have picked out the distinctive brown of dried blood.

“ _Merlin_ …”

Was the person a prisoner here? But no, that couldn’t be the case, as the voice continued to lead him forward, until Merlin stood in front of what could only be described as a fissure in the wall. A fissure with stairs, leading down into deeper darkness.

Merlin didn’t hesitate.

Surprisingly enough, the corridor widened the farther Merlin traveled, past several rusted out gates and a room filled to the brim with piles of stone ruins, broken frescoes and shattered statues. The decapitated and crumbling head of a stone woman stared back at him as he passed through, lovingly carved, adorned with a delicate crown, gently curled hair, and a beautiful face. He wondered why it laid here, forgotten.

Another surprise was that the deeper Merlin went, the fresher the air tasted. Eventually, he could even hear a faint roar, and taste salt on his tongue. The paved stones ended, now. It was only a natural corridor ahead of him, hewn from rock by nature and time. And in front of him, the path opened into a massive cave.

The passageway must have been made to connect to the sea caves beneath Camelot, hidden within the stone cliffs.

Gigantic stalactites and stalagmites pierced the cave, looking eerily similar to the maw of a huge beast. In the center was a raised plateau of rock, creating a deep ravine between it and Merlin, which wound away along with the sound of rushing water. The ceiling of the cave extended into darkness as well.

The rattling of a great chain drew Merlin’s attention. Suddenly, with a concussive burst of wind and an animal roar, his target was made known. It was… was that supposed to be a dragon?

“At last we meet, young warlock,” the dragon rumbled. “How small you are for such a great destiny.”

Small? This dragon was the small one, if you could even call him a dragon. Barely half the size of a mûmakil, it looked more like an oversized crocodile. Wait. This couldn’t possibly be the “Great Dragon” could it? If so, Merlin certainly could see how they captured and imprisoned it. It was closer in size to a dog than an actual, full-sized dragon.

“What do you mean by that?” Merlin snapped. “What destiny?”

Was this just some senile, runt of a dragon reject who’d been pestering him? And spouting nonsense about warlocks and destiny?

“Your gift, Merlin. It was given to you for a reason.” The dragon primly crossed its forelegs atop the rock edge it perched on.

His… gift? The lie about magic he’d concocted so he could eventually maneuver Arthur into ending their persecution of magical creatures, so they’d hopefully accept an alliance with elves?

“How do you know about me?”

“I know many things, young warlock.” The dragon drew itself up, as if readying itself to relay an important message. “Arthur is the Once and Future King who will unite the land of Albion.”

“Right.”

Arthur’s title meant next to nothing to Merlin, other than that it reminded him of the Dwarven myths of Durin’s reincarnations. Destinies were fickle things, even when delivered from the mouth of the Doomsman himself. Whatever the Great Dragon could come up with was probably the amalgamation of decades of rumors and half truths.

“But he faces many threats, from friend and foe alike.” Was the dragon being intentionally vague, or was he just making most of this up?

“And what does this have to do with me?”

Merlin would humor the dragon. For now. He didn’t know who else was in contact with it, and breaking his cover to a wildcard like this was a bad idea.

“Everything.” The dragon swung its spiked head around to look closely at Merlin with his luminescent eyes. “Without you Arthur will never succeed. Without you, there will be no Albion.”

Odd, that the dragon would ‘know’ that. Unless Merlin’s rise in importance and influence would be advantageous to it.

“There has to be a mistake.” Merlin was going to try to play the part of an opponent to Arthur. If the dragon knew this much about Merlin, he had to have known about his clash against the prince. “You must be wrong.”

“There is no right or wrong. Only what it, and what isn’t.”

That sounded _exactly_ like something a creature of evil would say to an unsuspecting, impressionable young man.

“But how do you know?” Merlin asked again.

The dragon seemed both agitated and amused by Merlin’s skepticism.

“I am the Great Dragon, Kilgharrah, and I am burdened with the gift of prophecy,” the dragon explained, ever prideful. “None of us can choose our destinies, Merlin. And none of us can escape it.”

Merlin made a few token protests about how Arthur was an idiot, that there was no way he would help him. Really, he was observing Kilgharrah, for as long as he could hold the beast’s attention. He had the feeling that once the dragon felt Merlin had gotten his message he would fly off and go to hiding in the caves again.

It was glaringly obvious that Kilgharrah was trying to gain Merlin’s trust, his dependence, a debt of gratitude— anything that would lead it closer to its ultimate goal, which was more likely than not to use Merlin to gain his freedom and raze Camelot to the ground, carrying death and destruction in his wake.

Briefly, Merlin had toyed with the thought of just killing the dragon and being done with the whole thing, already running the numbers on how much dragon hide armor he could make out of Kilgharrah. But no, he wouldn’t kill him yet. The beast had strange knowledge, and obviously used the mind arts to read the thoughts of the humans in the castle above his dark cave in his spare time. The dragon was a well of information, if Merlin could manipulate him instead of letting it manipulate him.

The dragon spread his wings, at his limit for the conversation.

“Wait! Wait I need to know more!” Establishing a dependence, albeit false, was what the dragon wanted, right?

To his surprise, the dragon actually paused.

“You will learn, in time,” he said cryptically.

Then Kilgharrah launched himself into the air, disappearing into the darkness of the caves.

Merlin hoped that would end the annoying _ósanwë-_ pestering from the dragon, but he wasn’t very optimistic. The fun-sized dragon wasn’t done with him yet, and vice-versa.

❮❋❯

“Merlin!” Gaius called. “Wormwood, henbane, and sorrel!”

“Alright.”

Fastening his neckerchief— infuriating little accessory it was, but he had to cover up the chain— Merlin blinked sleep from his eyes and picked up a sandwich from the table, along with the coins Gaius had set out for today’s purchases.

“And bring this to Morgana,” he handed Merlin a small vial of tonic. “Poor girl’s been having nightmares.”

Merlin resisted the urge to comment on how the medicine might be a nightmare in and of itself. He certainly didn’t trust the bright yellow color. It looked like it was still bubbling, for whatever reason.

The walk to Morgana’s chamber’s was pleasant enough, leading him past many cheerful servants going about their morning routines until Merlin reached the royal wing of the castle, which was arguably the most deserted corridor in the entire castle. Just the king, his son and his ward.

Merlin knocked on the closed door to Morgana’s chambers.

“Hello? Delivery from Gaius, my Lady.”

It was Gwen who answered the door.

“Merlin!” She smiled. “I didn’t know you apprenticed under Gaius.”

“Oh, not really,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m his ward, I guess. For now I’m just delivering things for him until he finds a position for me here.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have a proper job in no time.” Gwen took Morgana’s sleeping draught from his hands. “Will you be at the feast tonight? I’m so excited to see Lady Helen’s performance. You know, they say she has the fairest voice in the land…”

Gwen took his hands and dragged him into the Lady Morgana’s chambers, chatting happily about many things and nothing at once. While he probably should have felt inconvenienced by it, even disturbed by the knowledge that he seemed the only one to suspect ‘Lady Helen’ of subterfuge, or that it would likely come down to him to stop her, he couldn’t help but simply nod and smile along, enjoying her presence. It would seem that Gwen had already welcomed him into the fold.

❮❋❯

The banquet hall was practically drowning in splendor. Everywhere Merlin looked was a blood red flag embroidered with the Pendragon crest, silver platters filled to the brim with the best food the kitchens had to offer, and noble guests in glittering finery. All in all, it was a good party.

Merlin accompanied Gaius, as he wouldn’t have been admitted entry otherwise, and made idle talk for a few minutes. Then, there was a burst of murmurs and a hush fell over the room, as every eye was drawn to the entrance of one Lady Morgana, ward to the king and maiden of Camelot. It was easy to see why she was so beloved. With silky hair as black as night, piercing blue eyes, and porcelain skin, clad in a stunning red gown, she outshone everyone else in the room. When the dancing torchlight caught in her eyes, she looked otherworldly. Almost like…

“Don’t forget you’re here to work.” Gaius nudged Merlin.

“She looks great doesn’t she?” Gwen popped up, taking Gaius’s place. “Some people are just born to be queen.”

“They’re courting?”

Merlin watched Morgana and Arthur with newfound interest. According to staff rumors, Arthur may feel that way, but Morgana looked at him as she would a snotty, pea-brained little brother. And Arthur’s bullheadedness combined with that ferocious gleam he’d caught in Morgana’s eyes— there was no way they wouldn’t clash.

“No,” Gwen sighed. “But I hope so, one day.” Her smile was a bit too tight.

“Jealous?” He teased.

“Oh heavens no!” Gwen laughed. “Who’d want to marry Arthur?”

Somehow, the disgust in her voice wasn’t quite genuine.

“Come, Gwen, I thought you liked those rough, tough, save-the-world kind of men?”

“Ugh,” Gwen rolled her eyes. “No, I really like more ordinary men like you.”

Yeah, time to retrace his steps here.

“Believe me, I’m not ordinary.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you. Obviously. Not _you_ , I just more ordinary men. _Like_ you.”

“… Thanks, I guess.”

They shared an awkward glance.

She picked up her pitcher. “Excuse me.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to go,” he gestured vaguely and retreated.

She’d seemed a bit too flustered to be uninterested in him, but he’d try to dissuade her later. Hopefully that comment had been a step in the right direction, because any denial of flattery had the awful chance of making her like him more.

The heralds’ horns announced the entrance of the king, and everyone made their way to their seats. Merlin stationed himself in a secluded doorway, to the side of where the prince would be seated. King Uther gave a short speech, saying a bit about their prosperity he bought with bloodshed, and then Lady Helen entered, taking her place at a wooden stage at the far end of the hall, facing the royal family.

“Now, I am honored to introduce Lady Helen, of Mora.”

The audience applauded before taking their seats and turning their attention to the singer.

Lady Helen began to sing, but it was not in any tongue of Men, Westron or otherwise. Nor was it any tongue used among Elves, but it was instead something between Quenya, Sindarin, and Westron. The so-called ancient tongue used for magical incantations. Frankly, to Merlin’s ears it sounded horrendous, as every couple words he caught one he thought sounded almost familiar, like _rest,_ or _sleep_ , or _cobwebs_ , but other than that it was unrecognizable. And having grown up among the finest elven minstrels Merlin couldn’t say that her voice impressed him much either.

Slowly, Merlin saw eyelids begin to droop, heads begin to sink, bodies slump atop tables. Lady Helen stalked forward, gaze locked on Arthur, just as vulnerable to the sleeping spell as the rest of them.

Merlin hurriedly covered his ears to block out the sound. Lady Helen withdrew a throwing knife from her bosom.

She was standing directly beneath the gigantic iron chandelier. Merlin reached for his own knife, a personal favorite dubbed “The _Tulye-lenna_ ” by a certain blond fool.

Nearly screaming the crescendo of the song, the sorceress raised her arm to throw the knife at Arthur’s heart. 

Merlin threw first.

The chandelier crashed down, trapping Lady Helen and sending one of its iron spikes through her back. The spell was broken, as was her illusion (Merlin assumed whatever conduit she had used had been broken in the fall). The dagger flew swiftly back to Merlin’s hands from where it had broken the chandelier’s chains, but Merlin barely managed to tuck it back into hiding when the rest of the hall began to wake.

Uther was the first to fully recover, stunned expression swiftly changing to cold rage.

But one should never underestimate a vengeful mother. The sorceress, in one last burst of strength, pulled herself to her knees, snatching the her knife from the floor. She threw the dagger.

Everyone but Merlin was still sluggish from the spell. He was the only one who could react in time to save Arthur’s life.

The knife soared through the air, trained on Arthur’s heart.

Merlin’s hand gripped Arthur’s shoulder. He pulled him to the floor

The knife made an ominous _thunk_ as it imbedded itself in the back of Arthur’s empty chair.

The sorceress collapsed, letting out a final, wheezing breath. Blood pooled on the floor.

“You saved my boy’s life,” Uther spoke to Merlin, voice softer than he’d ever heard it before. “That debt must be repaid.”

“Oh, well—” Merlin looked at the ground.

“Don’t be so modest,” Uther cut him off. “You shall be rewarded.”

“Really, sire, I—”

“No, absolutely. This merits something special. You’ll be awarded a position in the royal household.” He spoke the last part louder, addressing the room instead of just Merlin. This was publicity.

“You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

“Father!” Arthur tried to protest, but Uther had already swept away, decision made.

Merlin and Arthur shared a grimace.

Yes, Merlin had needed to get closer to the prince. But he hadn’t wanted to get _that_ close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish translations:  
> Tulye-lenna ~ roughly translating to "come and go" it's the closest approximation of "boomerang" I could come up with for Quenya.  
> (expect more elvish mixed through future chapters)
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed! Please feel free to leave comments or ask questions about the fic.


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